


Running

by Builder



Series: Spiderverse [13]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Also kind of, Arguing, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Peter Parker and the terrible horrible no good very bad day, Sickfic, Vomiting, kind of, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 21:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12920976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: After Peter takes a risk on a mission, Tony can't entertain the possibilities and Peter can't entertain the ensuing argument.





	Running

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous Reader](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Anonymous+Reader).



> Thanks to Anonymous Reader for the req. I hope you see this! It's such a challenge to gift to anon comments.

When they get out of the car in front of the Avengers compound, all Peter wants is to take the elevator up to his room and collapse across the bed.  Or maybe he’ll take the stairs.  He’s not sure he trusts the throb in his head to stay out of the realm of nausea if he’s closed up in another moving vehicle. 

 

But he doesn’t even get a step through the front door when Mr. Stark’s hand crashes down on his shoulder.

 

“No,” Tony says.  “You’re not going anywhere until we’ve talked about this.”

 

Peter sighs.  His suit feels too hot and too tight, but it’s doing nothing for the prickling of cold goosebumps on his arms.  “There’s nothing to talk about.”  He continues to shuffle across the entryway.  “I said I was sorry.”

 

“That doesn’t cut it, kid,” Tony says.  He steps around Peter, blocking him from escaping upstairs.  “Sorry doesn’t matter.  I don’t think you understand how serious this is.”

 

Peter lets out another breath and shrugs.  “I was just doing my job.  Same as you.”  He’s too tired to arrange his face into anything but exasperated and serious.

 

“If you still think we have the same job…”  Tony breaks off shaking his head.  “That’s the problem.”

 

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to save people?”  Peter internally cringes at the whininess seeping through his voice.  Mr. Stark obviously thinks of him as a child, someone irresponsible and too naïve to handle responsibilities.  His tone isn’t helping, and there’s no way to explain that it’s born more of exhaustion than an actual attitude.

 

“Of course you’re allowed to save people,” Tony replies, as if this is obvious.  “You help me.  Together, we save people. 

 

“But I’m not, like, legit enough on my own.”  The level of irritation start to rise.  “Better not let me physically drag anybody out of harm’s way.  Then Ironman won’t get the credit.”

 

“Fuck, kid, it’s not about credit.  You are not allowed to take risks like that.  You could’ve been killed.”  Tony’s hands are balled into fists. “So, excuse me for caring about your safety.”

 

“If I hadn’t been there, that little girl would’ve died!” Peter explodes.  The image of her tear-streaked rosy cheeks still shows in his mind’s eye.  “I have to be allowed to keep a little kid from dying.”

 

“You can’t sacrifice yourself!” Tony shoots back.  “Not in front of me.”

 

“But isn’t that what you were going to do?”

 

“No.  I jumped in front of you and incinerated the bastard.  And the bullet.”

 

“Big difference.”

 

“It is a big fucking difference.”  Tony jams a finger into the spider logo on Petr’s chest.  “My life wasn’t on the line.”

 

“So give me bigger weapons!  Better armor!” Peter comes back.  He takes a step backward away from Tony’s reach.  His suit is starting to feel like a Halloween costume compared to Tony’s plain clothes and serious expression, his Ironman suit stowed away in a briefcase like the high-and-mighty businessman he is.

 

“That’ll just fuel your risk-taking.  That’s the last thing I’m gonna do.”  Tony gives a derisive laugh.  “I’m not turning you into me.”

 

Peter changes his tact.  “If I die saving someone, I don’t care.  That’s what I do.  I save people on the ground.”  He swallows hard and clasps his cold, clammy hands behind his back.  “If I put that much value on my own life…maybe I am too much like you.”

 

“Yeah, alright,” Tony spits.  “So I’ll just say goodbye to all hopes you’re gonna go on to discover a cure for cancer, or get a PhD by the time your 25, or be the governor of New York, or president of Stark industries.  I’ll go flush your college fund down the toilet while I’m at it.  Or maybe bust it on booze, since you’re not opposed to people fucking themselves up.”

 

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

 

“Yeah, you did,” Tony say.  “You’re gonna throw it all away.  Just like you did last time I offered you something.”

 

Peter’s chest fills with guilt, which mixes with his anger like baking soda and vinegar.  The throb in his head increases to skull-splitting.  He needs to get out of here, but Tony’s still blocking all paths upstairs.  “You know what.  I can’t do this right now.  Fuck you,” he says, with as much force as he can while keeping his volume under control.  He turns on his heel and shoves back through the compound’s front door.

 

A light rain has started to fall, and it quickly cools Peter’s rage.  He feels bad the moment he’s on the other side of the heavy glass that fronts the building.  The adrenaline fueling him is waning, and within seconds he goes from frustrated to emotionally limp. 

 

He should turn around and apologize.  Go up to his room and take a painkiller and a nap and let things blow over.  But…he can’t. Something’s keeping him standing under the low-hanging clouds, hating Mr. Stark.  And possibly hating himself more. 

 

Maybe it’s pride.  Or maybe masochism.  But whatever it is, it leads Peter to point his boots away from the compound, toward a misty tree-lined ridge.  He walks maybe half a football field before he starts feeling downright cold, shivering slightly beneath the fabric of his suit.  By the time he reaches the tree line, his teeth are chattering.  

 

The walk helps clear his head a little, but it does nothing for the pain in it.  Earlier Peter had assumed it was just a post-mission crash, a little low blood sugar, a little dehydration, a little hormonally burnt out.  But now that the throb has roughly timed itself up with the cold tremors wracking his limbs, he feels barely a step from feverish. 

 

He weaves between trees in various states of leaflessness.  Damp twigs and natural mulch crunch beneath his thin-soled boots.  The softness of the forest floor feels uncanny, a sharp contrast from the hard tile and wood floors back at the compound.  It’s almost like the little stand of trees wants to make him comfortable more than Mr. Stark does.

 

“What did I do?” Peter mutters under his breath.  He backs up against a tree and leans into it, pressing his slightly damp gloved hands over his face.  The pressure of tears is built up behind his eye sockets like water balloons about to burst.  Mr. Stark’s probably going to fire him.  Take away the suit again, for good this time.  All because he can’t listen.  He’s a hardheaded teenager with a lack of respect for authority.  It sounds like a bad report card.

 

But all of it stems from a maddening desire to change the world for the better.  What on earth is wrong with saving a little girl’s life?  If he died doing it, there’d probably be a statue raised in his honor.  Which is honestly a lot more recognition than he’s getting right now as Mr. Stark’s kid sidekick.  Peter’s head gives a particularly strong throb, and he slides down the roughness of tree bark until he’s seated on the forest floor with his head pressed into his knees. 

 

He doesn’t really mean to shut his eyes in the first place, but when Peter opens them, it’s downright dark out.  The rain’s picked up, falling harder and colder through the network of branches over his head.  He unwinds from the ball he’s been curled into and almost falls over.  Vertigo takes over all fumbling thoughts, and Peter’s left to scramble for a hold on the tree trunk to keep from face-planting.

 

Peter painfully shakes his head and tries to remember where the fuck he is.  It clunks into place along with why the fuck he’s there, and a fresh wave of guilt flows down to his stomach while quiet nausea works in the other direction.  He’s only a few minutes’ walk from the compound.  He needs to go back, if only because he’s freezing and wet and not feeling well.  It hardly matters if he still doesn’t completely forgive Tony.  He needs to think of himself, his health, and put attitude aside…  So maybe Mr. Stark does have a point after all.

 

Peter finishes hauling himself to his feet, the roughness of tree bark pulling the spandex of his gloves.  He starts back down the hill in what he hopes is the direction of the compound.  It’s a little disconcerting that he doesn’t completely remember.  And also that he’s having a hard time walking in a straight line. 

 

When he breaks through the trees, rain starts hitting him hard.  It’s turning to mixed sleet, and the moisture cuts through his suit instantaneously.  Peter can’t control the chattering of his teeth, and his throat is so tight he’s going to fall over retching at any moment. 

 

He walks forward, looking down so the icy droplets don’t cut against his cheeks.  So when the sunny beam of headlights cuts into his visual field, Peter isn’t quite sure what he’s looking at.  He blinks against the sudden brightness, trying to make out the outline of the car. It’s low-profile and red, inching along atop wet grass, though it’s obviously meant for stretches of highway.  Or racetracks.

 

“Oh my god,” Someone shouts.  The car’s driver door opens, and Mr. Stark emerges, looking frantic.  He’s wearing the same clothes he had on under is Ironman suit, and no jacket to protect from the weather.  He sprints up to Peter and grabs him in an embrace that seems to catch them both off guard. 

 

“What the fuck, kid?” Tony asks.  “I didn’t know if you’d gone back to the city, or into town, or… I definitely didn’t think you’d gone hiking…”

 

“Huh.”  Peter’s too cold, and his jaw’s too tightly wired to say much of anything.  But he feels his face crumple, and warm, salty tears join the droplets of cold rain streaming down his face. 

 

“It’s ok,” Tony comforts him, patting him on the back with a touch too much force. 

 

“S-sorry,” Peter chokes out.  He means sorry for crying, sorry for leaving, sorry for yelling, sorry for everything. 

 

“I’m not mad,” Tony murmurs.  “Jesus, you‘re freezing.  Get in the car.  I’ll get you someplace warm.”

 

Peter means to say _ok_ , but his body’s had enough of talking and shivering and pent up emotion.  When he opens his mouth, he ends up pitching forward in a body-wracking dry retch.

 

“Or, ok, throw up a little bit first,” Tony says with what sounds like the verbal equivalent of a shrug.  Peter heaves again, bringing up bile and not much else.

 

When he’s able to semi-straighten up, coughing, Tony maneuvers him over to the sports car, practically picking him up to stick him in the passenger seat.  Then he walks around to his own side and sees to pointing every vent at Peter and blasting the heater. 

 

“I’m gonna make sure you’re taken care of, ok?” Mr. Stark says.  He pats Peter’s shoulder a little more gently this time.  Peter has an idea he’s not just talking about right now.

 

He shakily nods.  “Ok.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fund](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918174) by [ardett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardett/pseuds/ardett)




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